


Jeeves and the Explosive Parcel

by airandangels



Category: Jeeves - P. G. Wodehouse
Genre: Explosives, M/M, PTSD, grenade
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-06
Updated: 2015-03-10
Packaged: 2018-03-16 14:17:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,656
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3491456
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/airandangels/pseuds/airandangels
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bang! Ow! Proust! What?<br/>When Jeeves foils a fiendish plot, involuntary memory rears its head.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This story was inspired by a real event, described by Bill Bryson on page 317 of _One Summer: America 1927._
> 
> “The first signals of angry dissent [against the guilty verdict in the trial of Sacco and Vanzetti) arose not in America, but in France. On 20 October 1921, a bomb was sent to Ambassador Myron Herrick in a package disguised to look like a gift. By remarkable good fortune the package was inadvertently activated by one of the few people in Paris who could recognize it for what it was and had the forbearance to respond accordingly. Herrick’s English valet, Lawrence Blanchard, had worked with bombs in the First World War and recognized the whirring sound within the package as a Mills hand grenade. He hurled the package into the ambassador’s bathroom an instant before it detonated. The explosion destroyed the bathroom and felled Blanchard with a piece of shrapnel to the leg, but he was otherwise unhurt. Had Herrick opened the package himself, another ambassador would have greeted Lindbergh in Paris in 1927.”
> 
> We know from 1953’s _Ring for Jeeves_ that Jeeves “dabbled in” the First World War. He certainly strikes me as the sort of person who might recognise the tell-tale whirring of a Mills hand grenade and take swift action to prevent harm.

In anticipation of the severe disapprobation of Mrs Gregson at the breaking of Mr Wooster’s engagement to her preferred niece-in-law, Miss Tennyson, I had presumed so far as to book passage for two on the next acceptable liner to New York. It is foresight like this which enables me to maintain my standing in Mr Wooster’s esteem. His professions of gratitude as we hastened up the gangway were profuse and highly satisfactory. Although I maintained a calm demeanour, I was inwardly exultant at the thought not only of several days in the sea air, and all the attractions of New York to follow, but of the concessions I should be able to exact from him in the matter of his offensively striped new socks.

Our journey passed uneventfully. I thoroughly enjoyed walking the decks and making the acquaintance of other passengers, and was fortunate enough to observe for some minutes a pod of North Atlantic right whales seemingly at play. Mr Wooster followed the whales’ example, occupying himself with innocent amusements and avoiding any further entanglements.

It was a pleasure, too, to install ourselves once again in the Stuyvesant Towers. I find the kitchen of this residence particularly convenient, and it affords me a larger bathroom than in the London flat. Mr Wooster at once commenced reacquainting himself with American friends, and was soon immersed in the social whirl of Manhattan. With an ocean between us and the wrath of Mrs Gregson, I dare say we both breathed more easily. I cannot say that I find Mrs Gregson an agreeable lady, but I respect her. She is formidable.

Proust, in the first volume of his great work _À la Recherche du Temps Perdu,_ introduces the theme of involuntary memory, the manner in which some stimulus will unexpectedly and vividly evoke a recollection from one’s past. In Proust’s case, dipping a madeleine in his tea evoked the memory of dipping another such madeleine in tea taken with his aunt as a child. I do not know whether the madeleine or the aunt produced a more vivid impression upon the author as a youth. I do know that on one occasion while struggling to negotiate the thronged concourse of Grand Central Station, I caught a whiff of a distinctive perfume which brought to mind with startling suddenness the memory of my own Great-Aunt Jenny, to whom I was quite devoted as a small boy but of whom I had not consciously thought for many years. I continued my progress with unshed tears in my eyes.

Aunts, as Mr Wooster has been known to remark, are rum creatures.

I experienced this phenomenon again one morning while bringing in Mr Wooster’s post and sorting it to determine whether it contained any items of particular urgency, or any which could be immediately discarded. On that day, he received letters from Mr Rockmeteller Todd, Mr Hildebrand Glossop, his sister Mrs Scholfield, and a brown paper parcel inscribed with no return address. Indeed, the address with which it was inscribed was indistinct, owing to a large ink-blot, and I was unsure whether “Wooster” was the name intended. It may have been “Watson.” I was inspecting it more closely, and Mr Wooster, propped up on his pillows and taking his tea with shining morning face, was just inquiring what I had there, when involuntary memory reared its head.

Though I seldom speak of it, I had some passing involvement in the events of the Great War. Mine was a minor _rôle,_ but it required me to be familiar with, amongst other things, a variety of explosive ordinance. The memory which came to me then with devastating force was one of my very near destruction by a Mills hand grenade, which, due to muddy ground which caused me to slip as I threw, I failed to lob a sufficient distance from myself.

The Mills bomb, once activated, emits a distinctive whirring sound, which I now heard issuing from the parcel. After the pin is pulled, one has an interval of seven seconds to throw the grenade and take cover before it explodes. I do not know by what means the grenade which I now know to have been inside the package was activated, but I knew with absolute certainty that I must get it away from myself and Mr Wooster without delay. I believe that my alarm must have shown on my face, for he had just time to enquire “I say, Jeeves, what’s gotten into you?” as I pivoted, briefly considered, and decisively flung the deadly object through the open doorway of Mr Wooster’s bathroom.

I then attempted to throw myself across the bed, intending to carry Mr Wooster with me and shelter both of us behind the article of furniture, but too much time had elapsed. With a deafening report, the grenade exploded. Had I been able to hear anything after the explosion, I dare say I would have been dismayed by the ensuing smashing of porcelain and glass, and gushing of water from the devastated commode. I felt a sharp impact against the back of my left thigh and fell ungracefully across the foot of the bed.

All was a confusion of dust and tinnitus. My heart was beating thunderously, both with the exertion of the moment and with the alarm of my involuntarily recalled memory. I struggled to breathe, and felt a cold sweat break out profusely over my entire person. It was quite counterproductive. It seemed to take an age for me to push myself up with my arms and to roll onto my side. I remembered the nightmarish slowness with which my younger self had turned and lurched toward cover, my feet sliding again in the mud so that I fell flat upon my face. In the event, lying prone was what saved me. The portion of broken wall which I had hoped to make my shelter was entirely destroyed by the blast, while I was unharmed, apart from a broken nose sustained through sudden contact with the ground.

The dust in the air was thinning as the larger particles settled to the ground, though much was still borne aloft by the breeze swirling in from the hole, large enough to admit the body of a grown man, which the explosion had torn in the exterior wall. I felt the breeze upon my face, being unable to hear either it, or the sounds of the street which must have been drifting in. I wished that it had been possible to close the bathroom door.

Mr Wooster was sitting motionless, and for a dreadful moment I feared that he had been killed, but that moment elapsed, I saw that he was merely frozen with astonishment, like a startled rabbit. He had a great deal of plaster dust in his hair and about his person, which made him appear somewhat ghostly. He was still holding his teacup, but its contents were splashed over the front of his heliotrope pyjamas.

His lips moved, and very faintly, as if at a great distance, I heard through the tinnitus whine my own name. It was a relief to realise that I was not, after all, stone deaf.

“I shall be better directly, sir,” I said, and attempted to rise. However, I was felled once more by a stab of pain in my left thigh. Twisting to see it, I discovered that my trouser leg was saturated with blood, which was also staining the counterpane. A jagged lump of metal shrapnel protruded from the flesh visible through a large rent in the fabric. You will readily imagine my dismay.

As I considered my course of action, Mr Coneybear, our elevator operator, entered the room somewhat precipitously. He appeared winded and his eyes were very wide and white in his dark face. I could not make out what he said through the singing in my ears, but I expect it was an inquiry as to the origin of the noise, which must have been quite audible throughout the building.

I am heartily glad that Mr Coneybear was there. I believe I was suffering from shock, and lacked my customary presence of mind. He acted quickly to bandage my leg with a torn pillow-case, which staunched the bleeding, and in the opinion of Doctor Levine, may have saved my life. I wished very much to stand by myself, which I am sure would have brought on a fresh spate of bleeding and done me incalculable harm, and had to be held down by both Mr Coneybear and Mr Wooster. Mr Wooster remained, seated on the bed with his arms around me, while Mr Coneybear departed to summon more expert aid.

Perhaps because of the differing timbre of his voice, Mr Wooster was more audible to me than Mr Coneybear had been. I could hear him, a little more clearly than before, repeating to me, “Hold still, now, Jeeves, there’s a dear chap. Hold still.” He was, doubtless in his own reaction to the shock, crying, so that his tears made pink tracks through the ashy white of the dust on his face. He permitted me, at least, to wipe them away with my handkerchief. I did not like to see him so distressed. He continued to hold me, and to speak soothingly, until the crew of an ambulance arrived. I remember little from that point until the evening of that day, when I awoke in a hospital bed.

 

The first sight I beheld upon opening my eyes was merely a jug of water standing on the bedside table, but the second was the face of Mr Wooster. He sat beside me, reading _Harper’s Bazaar._ He was fully dressed, and must have taken the opportunity to wash the plaster out of his hair, perhaps in my small bathroom, as he surely could not have done it in his own. When I stirred, he looked up, and delight bloomed upon his face. It was a very welcome sight.

“You’re awake, Jeeves. I _am_ glad to see you awake.” The tinnitus had faded to a moderate whine while I slept, and it was easier by far to hear him. I took stock of my condition. I felt a pleasant, soft numbness which I attributed to morphia. I was disinclined to rise, but felt quite capable of doing so.

“They think it was anarchists!” Mr Wooster exclaimed.

“Do they, sir?”

“Yes, although Lord knows what anarchists would want with me. I advanced the theory that it was Aunt Agatha, but the police captain didn’t seem to think much of that.”

“It would be a remarkable escalation of hostilities for Mrs Gregson to resort to explosives, sir.”

“Apparently there’s a lot of it about. Must be seasonal, like ‘flu.”

Presently we were joined by Dr Levine, who explained that I had sustained a deep laceration on the left thigh, from which he had removed a piece of shrapnel which I might keep if I liked. My wound was clean, sutured and expected to heal well. I told him about my tinnitus, and after examining my ears and performing some tests, he assured me that he expected it to clear up by itself with time and rest. I was to remain in hospital a few days, after which, if I made good progress, I might be discharged to recuperate at home. He congratulated me upon my heroism, which I found mildly embarrassing.

“Home, for the nonce, is a suite at the Plaza Hotel,” Mr Wooster told me. “I’ve had our stuff moved. We’ll be quite all right there until the repairs are done. I’ll get you a trained nurse and you shall want for nothing.”

He remained steadfastly at my side while I spoke to the police, giving them what little information I could. The fact that I could identify the bomb as a Mills grenade, and that I thought the name on the package may have been Watson rather than Wooster, might at least be of some help in tracing the culprit.

“I’m impressed that you could tell what it was just from the sound, Mr Jeeves,” said the senior detective. “That’s a big help.”

“It’s amazing what Jeeves knows,” Mr Wooster said proudly. “He is a marvel.”

He stayed, and read to me, and poured me glasses of water most solicitously until a nurse whom, in England, I should have addressed as Matron shooed him out. In the morning he was back with a sheepish grin and a copy of the _New York Times_ bearing the headline “Quick-Thinking Valet Saves English Lord’s Life in Bomb Attack.”

“I shall have to write and request a correction,” he said, passing me the paper. “You are, unquestionably, a quick-thinking valet who saved my life, but I’m not a lord.” He grew more serious. “I shall never forget this, Jeeves. You’ve pulled me out of the soup many a time and oft, but you’ve reached a new high. If not for you, I’d be in bits. Smithereens! They’d have to bury me in a shoebox.”

“There is really no need for any fuss, sir,” I demurred. “I only did my duty, and acted in self-preservation besides.”

“If I can’t make a fuss of you when you save my life and get wounded doing it, when can I make a fuss? You must just resign yourself to a lifetime of fuss and gratitude, my dear Jeeves. I’ve brought you grapes.”

I will own that it was comforting to have him there. When I was alone and closed my eyes, I saw once again the mud of a French field rising up to smack me in the face, and my heart pounded. The singing in my ears was louder and worse when all was quiet, so I welcomed Mr Wooster reading to me. So eager was he to please, he actually tackled Spinoza for me. I doubt he understood much of it - Mr Wooster’s gifts are not of the intellectual variety - but I have always found his voice pleasant. He brought me fresh fruit every day, and my own pyjamas and dressing gown, and was altogether very kind to me.

The tinnitus having subsided, and my wound remaining clean and healing well, I was permitted to leave hospital. Mr Wooster put me into a taxi and took me to the Plaza Hotel, where he had engaged a very acceptable suite of rooms. At my request, we did without the trained nurse. I had already had more than enough unwanted attention from persons insistent on regarding me as a hero. One aggressive young lady of the “baby vamp” variety had inveigled her way into the hospital intent upon proposing marriage, but was fortunately apprehended by the Matron.

When we entered the suite, Mr Wooster excitedly showed me the bouquets, telegrams and cards which had arrived from friends and well-wishers - not sensation-seeking New Yorkers, but people we knew well. I was particularly touched by a card signed by the members of the Junior Ganymede Club, wishing me a swift and smooth recovery. I confess that I had harboured some hopes of resuming my duties, or at least the lighter ones, but the effort and discomfort which the walk from the ward to the taxi-cab, and from the taxi-cab through the lobby of the hotel had cost me made it clear that this was out of the question. Mr Wooster, too, was adamant that I was to rest. I might lie in bed, or recline upon the sofa with my hurt leg elevated, but I was to attempt nothing more strenuous.

After several days of sponge-baths, I was eager to bathe properly, and after some negotiation we agreed that I might. Mr Wooster filled the bath and assisted me to get in. It felt odd, to say the least, to be assisted by him, and I believe we were both somewhat embarrassed by the reversal of rôles. Rather than linger and chat to me, as I commonly do while he bathes, he left the room once I was seated. I soon heard him playing the piano in the sitting-room. I soaked contentedly, listening to “Rhapsody in Blue.”

(To be continued)

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A spot of catharsis.

I am normally a sound and dreamless sleeper, but that night, I dreamed of the mud, and the grenade, and of my fall. I awoke with a great jolt and lay breathing hoarsely, realising that I was cold, my pyjamas drenched with perspiration. My ears sang fiercely.

The door opened, and Mr Wooster’s head appeared silhouetted by the light in the hallway. “Jeeves? Are you all right? I heard you cry out.”

“I… I shall be better directly, sir. I apologise for disturbing you.” I fear that there was something untoward in my voice, for he came into the room and felt for my hand.

“You’re all of a lather,” he said, sitting down on the side of the bed. “Are you feverish?” There was such tender concern in his voice that I was glad of the darkness.

“I had a distressing dream,” I admitted. I eased myself up into a sitting position, and rubbed at my chest with one hand, attempting to alleviate the sensation of tightness there. “Most uncharacteristic of me.”

“I should say so. I don’t usually hear a peep out of you in the night.”

“It is the duty of a servant to appear to be present only when required,” I said, repeating an old lesson. “I very much regret this lapse.”

“Oh, come now, Jeeves. Lapse away. I don’t expect you to be a paragon at the moment. I only want you to get well.” His hand found mine again, resting on the counterpane, and patted it. 

I would not have presumed, but I was very cold. “Might I trouble you for a towel, sir?”

In addition to not being an intellectual man, Mr Wooster is not what I would term a practical man. He struggles to make tea. While attending a course intended to teach him domestic self-sufficiency, he resorted to smuggling in an old woman to do his darning homework for him. I expected little from him in this case, and was surprised by how he rose to the occasion. The towel was quickly provided, followed by dry pyjamas, and he located an extra blanket upon the wardrobe shelf which he laid over the damp bottom sheet so that I might have a dry surface to rest upon. I sat down again, and he made ineffectual but well-intentioned efforts to tuck me in.

“Thank you, sir.” 

“Think nothing of it, Jeeves. Less than nothing.” He patted me on the shoulder and withdrew to the door. With his hand on the knob, he turned back, and with a sweet, foolish smile, in a fair imitation of my voice, asked “Will there be anything else, Jeeves?”

“No, thank you, sir,” I said, unable to repress a small smile of my own.

“Good night, Jeeves.”

“Good night, sir.”

I slept comfortably until morning, when I awoke early, through lifelong habit. It was most strange and unsatisfactory that I was not pursuing my normal morning routine - bathing, dressing, bringing in the milk and newspapers, and reading them at my leisure with tea and toast, before brewing a second pot and preparing Mr Wooster’s breakfast in readiness for his usual hour of ten. His late rising has long permitted me very comfortable mornings; I am the envy of my friends whose gentlemen rise early for business.

I am not happy with Mr Wooster only because his routine allows me ample time for myself. He himself is the most amiable of gentlemen, sweet-tempered, generous and accommodating. Thinking of his kindness to me since my injury called to mind many small kindnesses in our years together. Occasions when he had tried my patience seemed insignificant by comparison. Had he not always made amends with a good will? And had I not, sometimes, been perhaps a trifle severe in my management of him? There are times when I must correct his course for his own good, as any gentleman’s personal gentleman knows, but I resolved in future to do so more gently.

Of course, if there is one area in which I find him wanting, it is the life of the mind. His idea of philosophy is a facile lyric commending a sunny disposish. His only reading is detective novels and humorous magazines. He must at some point have exercised his intellect enough to pass the entrance examination for Oxford, yet he squandered his opportunity to take a degree at that great seat of learning.

It occurred to me, with a sinking feeling, that my disparagement of Mr Wooster’s intellect might be as much because of my resentment of that last fact as because of any shortcoming of his own. Higher education was never a possibility for me, though I have always taken every opportunity that I have had to better myself. Besides, would he have gone to Oxford of his own accord, or was it more likely that the formidable Mrs Gregson would hear of him doing nothing else? He would have stood no chance of resisting her alone. Very few men would. It seemed petty of me to harbour resentment for this, even if I had felt it almost unconsciously.

Enforced inactivity is clearly not good for me. As I lay, in these thoughts myself almost despising, there was a soft tap at the door, followed by Mr Wooster bearing a tray. 

“Good morning, Jeeves! I know you like to be up betimes, so I asked the desk to knock me up. I say, isn’t Room Service a wonderful thing? I needn’t try to cook, and you needn’t eat anything I’ve tried to cook.”

I regarded him with astonishment. For all that he had done it with the assistance of the staff of an hotel, he had exerted himself for my comfort. As I hitched myself into a sitting posture, he laid the tray across my lap. I did not think that the hotel’s catering staff had been responsible for the arrangement of two fried eggs and a rasher of bacon in the semblance of a smiling face.

“Thank you, sir,” I said, sincerely touched. “This is most kind.”

“Oh, pish,” he said, smiling to beat the bacon. “And I would go so far as to venture, tosh. Tosh, Jeeves! Tuck in.” He stuffed his hands into his pockets and nodded emphatically, before scurrying off and striking up “An American in Paris.” 

He continued in this vein all day. He helped me in and out of the bath, he helped me to change the dressing on my leg, he bustled around to make me comfortable on the sofa, and he played Liszt until, at my request, he stopped and played Handel. 

Mr Wooster having a luncheon engagement at the Pumpkin Club, I saw to my own midday meal, though that meant only that I was the one to telephone for Room Service. In the afternoon I settled myself to read upon the sofa, but must have dozed off, my book upon my chest.

I dreamed that I stood in a crowded street, though whether in London or New York I could not tell. Mr Wooster was beside me, chatting amiably of this and that. I could hear the whirring of a Mills bomb. I was desperate to discover where it was, but for some reason it was imperative that I not let anyone else know what was wrong. Heat and cold chased one another through my frame, and my breath came short. The whirring grew louder and louder, and seemed to come from everywhere around us. I found the grenade, resting upon a vendor’s pile of newspapers, and seized it, though my heart seized at the thought that several seconds had already elapsed. I tried to throw it away, but there were people on all sides. Wherever I aimed, I would cause dozens of deaths and wounds. The ground was slick beneath my feet, and I slipped and crashed against Mr Wooster. He struggled to hold me up, and my hand holding the bomb was caught between our bodies. I could not move, and I felt the deadly whirring against my pounding heart. We looked at one another in horrified realisation.

I awoke in a panic, and thrashed against the hands on my shoulders.

“Jeeves, it’s all right! You’re quite safe. It’s only me, Bertie. I’m so sorry, I was trying to stop you rolling yourself off the old squab.”

I blinked at him in confusion for a moment before I quite remembered where I was. 

“I think you were dreaming again,” he said, helping me to sit up. “Bit of a phantasm, was it?”

“It… yes, it was,” I admitted. “I’m afraid my nerves have been rather shaken by recent events.”

“I don’t blame you,” he confided, sitting down beside me. “I must say I’ve felt a touch shell-shocked too. A car backfired just as I stepped out of the Pumpkin Club and I jumped like a jackrabbit.” He rubbed his hands together and furrowed his brows. “Would you like to go away, Jeeves? Somewhere quiet, by the seaside?”

“Please, Mr Wooster, I hate to have you make any special arrangements for my sake.”

“It’s no trouble at all, I assure you. Say the word.”

“I mean that it would make me feel most uncomfortable. I much prefer to recuperate quietly, without any more disruption to our lives than we have already sustained.”

“Oh, quite, quite.” He rubbed his hands again. “I must say, Jeeves, I know you had by far the worst of it, with your poor leg, but I did feel dreadfully disrupted. Seeing you in such a bad way… well, it shakes a chap to the foundations. As if Nelson fell off his column, or the Statue of Liberty swooned into the harbour.”

“I am terribly sorry to have caused you distress, sir.”

_“You_ didn’t cause me distress. If they ever catch that bounder who sent us an exploding parcel, I’ll have a thing or two to say to _him._ Well! Time for tea.”

Over the next few days, I continued to be bedevilled by dreams with the recurring motifs which I have already described. Mr Wooster bore with me patiently, reassuring me as I awoke that I was safe and the crisis had passed. I wished the dreams would simply abate. Why should they not, when I knew myself to be safe and when I was physically recovering so well? My wound was forming a scar, and although it still ached and would not allow me to sit upon a hard chair, Dr Levine thought that he would soon be able to remove my stitches.

I awoke again from a nightmare of terrified immobility and impending doom. My pyjamas and sheets were cold and soggy, and although I accepted Mr Wooster’s help gratefully, I was morose at my continuing need for it.

“Jeeves,” he said, when I was settled back in bed, warm and dry, “I hate to poke the hooter where it’s not wanted, but do you think it might help if you were to tell me what you’ve been dreaming about? Perhaps it wouldn’t seem so bad that way. I always feel better after I unburden myself to you. Though I can’t promise I’ll come up with a solution as clever as you would.”

I looked at him, his face pale and earnest in the shadowy room. He reached for my hand again, patting it hesitantly, and I felt that whatever the distance and differences between us, Mr Wooster, here and now, was my friend.

“May I tell you something that I have told no-one else?”

“Of course, old top. And I’ll never tell a soul. Don’t be embarrassed.”

“Embarrassment is not the problem. Strictly speaking, I should say nothing, after signing the Official Secrets Act. However, I trust you, Mr Wooster.”

“Consider me trustworthy and intrigued.” He drew his legs up to sit cross-legged on the end of my bed, his elbows on his knees and his chin on his folded hands, as if we were schoolboys sharing confidences in the dormitory.

“When the Great War began, I enlisted in the Army. I was not keen for the war _per se,_ but I felt that it was my duty, and I confess that I had some thoughts of adventure abroad. The reality, of course, was quite different from my expectations. Fortunately, I was accustomed to strict discipline and routine, and I flatter myself that I can adapt myself quickly to new circumstances.”

“I should say so,” Mr Wooster said, nodding. “Go on.”

“Although I was only a private, I distinguished myself by my initiative and nous, and was selected by my superiors for advancement.”

“So they promoted you?”

“Not as such. I was chosen to serve elsewhere, with Military Intelligence, Section Six.”

“I say!”

“I already spoke some French and German, partly self-taught, and partly by keeping my ears pricked while I worked as a page in the young ladies’ school. I undertook an intensive course in order to become more fluent, and documents were prepared to enable me to pass as a Swiss national. My experience in domestic service enabled me to obtain a situation in the household of a well-connected Austro-Hungarian nobleman, and thus to obtain intelligence of some worth to the Allies. It was not possible to establish an intelligence network within Germany itself, and secondary sources were of great value.”

“Crikey!” Mr Wooster remarked with deep feeling. His eyes fairly shone. “You never cease to astonish, Jeeves. Not that I’m surprised to hear that you were a hero.”

“I find little heroic in the work of a spy, Mr Wooster. Most would call it dishonourable.”

“Do you recall what I said about pish and tosh, Jeeves? That must have taken tremendous nerve! I’m sure you never faltered.”

“I was much younger then, sir.”

“Is that what your dreams are about? Spying?”

“No.” After this preamble, I still found it difficult to come to the point. “No, sir. In the last days of the war, it was necessary for me to extricate myself from the Baron’s household and make my way back through France. I had to employ a variety of subterfuges and disguises. It was… most challenging.” I dovetailed my fingers, seeking to distract myself somehow from what I was saying. “I had never feared for my life as a spy. I’m not sure why. I took great risks. If I were caught I would have been shot. Perhaps tortured first, for what information I might give up. Still, I was in what was essentially a familiar environment, a great house in which standards must be maintained. I believe the Baron had no cause to complain of my service. However… however, travelling through a country devastated by war, in which people were hungry and desperate… and to think that I had been a part of that war, and had not suffered… told upon me.”

“Oh dear,” he said. Although it is a common exclamation of dismay, I felt as if by “dear” he meant me. I took a certain comfort from the illusion.

“On one occasion… I was pursued by three men who I believe meant me harm… I had acquired a grenade, which I had picked up as much to prevent it being found by a child as… as for any possibility of needing to use it. I believed that need was upon me. I was afraid. I drew the pin and threw the grenade at my pursuers. It was a dangerous thing to attempt even if I had been able to throw it the recommended distance. It had been raining, and I slipped in the mud, and the bomb fell short, between me and them. It was very near. I was afraid for my life. I tried to take cover, but slipped again and fell. By great good fortune, I was not struck by any of the shrapnel or… or debris. My pursuers were not so fortunate. Two were killed outright and the third was… in agony. He had an abdominal wound. Mr Wooster, I ran away.”

I was breathing with difficulty, and my interlaced hands gripped one another so tightly that my knuckles ached. Mr Wooster placed his hands over mine and carefully pried them apart. He held my hands in his and looked at me. There was no disapproval in his gaze. I could not name his expression. “What happened then?” he asked.

“Soon afterwards I found my way to an Allied field hospital, where I identified myself and received first aid. I had injured my nose. It was well set. They were very kind to me. I went home soon after that, and after my debriefing, I was able to spend a month at the seaside, recuperating. My superiors invited me to remain with MI6, but I preferred to pick up the traces of my pre-war life. My Uncle Charlie helped me to find a situation, and it was a great comfort to resume a normal routine.”

He looked a touch confused, which is not unusual. “Were you all right?”

“I was better almost directly,” I said, with an attempt at a smile. “To tell you the truth, I had scarcely thought of it for a long time.”

“I see.” Clearly he did not see, and I could not blame him. What I had related was so far outside his experience as to be quite alien. I could not expect him to understand. And yet I was not unhappy, because he had heard what I was most ashamed of, and he had not turned away from me. He did not condemn me. “Jeeves, what can I do? What would make you feel better?”

“You are already doing it,” I told him. “Your kindness and patience are what I most need.”

“It seems so blessed little.”

“It has been a tremendous relief to speak of this. I feel -”

Abruptly, I uttered a sob. It startled me as much as Mr Wooster.

“Jeeves, are you all right?”

“I feel much better,” I protested as I dissolved into tears.

He was solicitude itself. He put his arms around me and patted my back, and murmured gentle assurances that I would be all right. I tried repeatedly to assert that I should be better directly, but continued to weep until I had no tears left to shed. I seemed to have no sense of shame or propriety remaining. I saturated my employer’s shoulder. At last I was ready to compose myself to rest. Mr Wooster offered to remain beside me until I was quite asleep. It would be romantic but unrealistic to suggest that I slept perfectly because of his company. The dream recurred, but this time when I awoke I found that he was still beside me, having apparently dozed off while watching over me. He wrapped his arms around me again, and my distress subsided. As I drifted back to sleep, I realised that, at least, I had not been sweating.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oh Jeeves, you sack of mush.

Mr Wooster was still there when I awoke, sleeping sweetly with his cheek on my shoulder. I could not move without disturbing him, and I gladly accepted the excuse to remain so close, and to gaze at his peaceful, boyish face. I resisted, however, the strong temptation to stroke his cheek, to comb my fingertips through his rumpled hair, and to kiss his soft mouth until he woke. Mr Wooster has ever been my weakness, despite my many attempts to defeat these emotions with reason. I had told myself innumerable times that he could not possibly reciprocate. There was a time when I tried, more than once, to court him with poetry in romantic settings, but he seemed innocent of any comprehension of my feelings.

Lying beside him with his breath soft and warm against my cheek, I knew, too, how hollow my efforts to deaden my more tender affections had been. Besides the resentment I had already confessed to myself, was not my intellectual contempt for him a merely an attempt to persuade myself that I could not love him? _Mentally negligible,_ I would tell myself, as if the words were a protective charm. Mr Wooster is not stupid. He is not an intellectual man, and nor is he a practical man, nor yet a shrewd man, but he is a delight to converse with. An appreciation for mystery and for comedy is hardly a sign of mindlessness. He makes me happy. I could not have stayed with him as long as I have if I despised him, if his simplicity were truly irksome to me.

“Dear Bertie,” I murmured, almost soundlessly. What a pleasure to shape his name with my mouth, the name used by his intimates, but out of bounds for the man who lived with him. I realised that if I did not arrest this train of thought, I should soon become quite maudlin. Yet I could not move away from him. I closed my eyes and hoped to sleep again. 

A few minutes later, I felt Mr Wooster stir, and heard him make a little sound, a faint grunt. He followed this with a contented sigh. Contented, perhaps, to wake and find himself in my arms? I thought, however, that he was merely shifting in his sleep. He rolled over, turning his back to me, but then wriggled back against my warmth. I grew warmer still, and yielded to impulse. I wrapped my arm about his waist and breathed in the scent at the nape of his neck.

I must have dozed again. I was roused by Mr Wooster sitting up.

“Oh - what time is it?” he mumbled. I would have spoken, but he was moving again. The clock was on the table on my side of the bed, and realising this, he twisted around to look that way. Mr Wooster is never fully alert when he first wakes in the morning, and I think for the moment he was forgetful that I was there. In twisting on his hip, he overbalanced and placed his hand on the mattress for support. Consequently, he was poised over my body, and I could see his dawning realisation, and then his blush. 

“Good morning, Jeeves,” he faltered. “You, er, I… I’m sorry, I forgot to arrange your breakfast. Oh! It’s half-past ten. I’m awfully sorry.”

“The time is hardly your fault, Mr Wooster.”

“I’ll just run your bath,” he said, and bounded out of bed, leaving me in a state of sour discontent, to which I tried to become once more resigned.

 

As Mr Wooster continued rather skittish for the rest of the day, and spent a good portion of it out seeing friends, I was quite surprised at his suggestion during dinner that he might spend the night in my bedroom again.

“Now that I understand a bit more about these dreams that have been unravelling your sleeve of care, well, perhaps it’d be better to have me right on tap, so to speak. I - I did help, didn’t I? Last night?” he asked diffidently.

“You helped me immensely,” I said. “Would it not be inconvenient for you?”

“Not at all. I could have a camp-bed brought up for me to sleep on. If you didn’t want me in the bed with you again.”

“Were you uncomfortable, sir?”

“I was afraid _you_ might have been uncomfortable. With your leg.”

“Not in the least.”

“Oh. Oh, well, then, we needn’t trouble them. Jolly good, Jeeves.”

I wondered very much at his willingness to share my bed again, but I was grateful for it when I woke in the night, shivering, with a small cry I could not repress. Mr Wooster rolled toward me, taking my hands and rubbing the cold from them. “Oh now, oh now-now-now,” he crooned, his voice blurry with sleep. “That’s all over. You’re safe and sound, here with me.”

At first I could not think where “here” could be, but it came to me that we were warm and dry, and that his voice was familiar and dear to me. I strove to steady my breathing, and after a few deep breaths, I was once more master of myself, and knew him. 

“Thank you, sir. I’m feeling better.”

“Pish and t. Pish and t., my dear Jeeves. If I can help your recovery with such a little thing, I’d be a brute to refuse.”

I wondered if there were any decent way to ask him to hold me again, but before I could despair of it, I felt his arm around my shoulders, and he hugged me tight.

“I’m so glad I _can_ do this,” he said, slightly muffled. “I felt so bally helpless when you were on the bed all bleeding and white-faced. You’ve always seemed so steadfast. I couldn’t believe anything could actually hurt you. It was like seeing the Rock of Gibraltar wobble.”

“I am only a man, Mr Wooster.”

“Well, you’re _my_ man, and I wouldn’t know what to do without you. Think how I pine when you go to the seaside for a week.”

“You exaggerate.”

“I do not.” He squeezed tighter for a moment, emphatically. “Oh, I know I’m being a silly ass, but it _does_ feel nice, doesn’t it?”

I affirmed that it felt very nice indeed. After a moment, I essayed, “I miss you, too, sir, when I am away. I look forward to the change of scene, but at the end of my sojourn, I look forward to - to going home. I have never felt such a personal attachment to any other employer.”

“Nor I to any other… well, to any other, if it comes to that.” He paused, then added “Would it bother you, Jeeves, if I considered you my best friend?”

“No, sir.”

“Then I shall.” He rubbed his cheek against my shoulder and settled on the pillow with a sigh.

Though my habit is to modestly demur, I very much enjoy being praised by Mr Wooster. His accolades are sometimes naïve, but always sincere. I have never suspected him of empty flattery, far less of attempting to butter me up. It is not in my nature to be effusive, as it is in his, but I felt the urge to reciprocate. “May I do the same, sir?”

“But my friends don’t call me sir.”

Hope faded, and I shrank like the prodded eyestalk of a snail. “I apologise, sir. I should not have presumed -”

“No, no, no, I mean for you to call me Bertie.”

Hope rekindled. “Thank you, Bertie.”

“Good night now, best of Jeeveses. Sleep soundly, and dream of big fish. Big silvery fish, and plump shrimps that pause only to boil themselves and shimmy out of their shells before flinging themselves gaily into your mouth… while you bask on a sunny beach by an azure sea…” He rambled peacefully on, and I composed myself to sleep.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wuv.

My recovery continued. The nightmares came less often, and sometimes I slept through the night undisturbed. When my dream recurred, Mr Wooster, or as I sometimes had to remind myself to call him, Bertie, would comfort me until the shortness of breath and feelings of impending doom subsided. I surprised myself with a certain sentimental expectation that love would conquer all. I know more of psychology than that, but I was still somewhat disappointed that I continued to wake in a panic at unpredictable intervals. I would have been afraid that the dreams were now an inextricable part of myself, but for the fact that their frequency and intensity was clearly abating with time and care.

I had not yet found the courage to confess my love. I was in a most peculiar sort of limbo. On one hand, I had ample reason to believe that he would be receptive, or at the very least, would not be repelled. He was so very affectionate, and had proven himself so very forgiving. And yet, on the other, I was not quite sure that the love he clearly felt and the love that I felt were of the same nature. If mine were _eros_ and his were _philia,_ or even _storge,_ a confession could cause great discomfiture to both of us. I admit that, while I knew that the question must be resolved, I was enjoying our greater intimacy so much that I was reluctant to ask. In vain did I remind myself that if he reciprocated, my happiness would be greater still. In short, I had hugs, but not kisses. To try for the kisses meant to gamble with the hugs. I hesitated.

Of course, we were both perfectly well aware that our new arrangement would be deviant in the eyes of the world. The days in which Othello could hear of Iago and Cassio sharing a bed and find nothing remarkable in that but the fact that, Iago claimed, Cassio was dreaming of Desdemona, are long behind us.

Had I been in any doubt as to Mr Wooster’s understanding of this, it would have been laid to rest one sunny Tuesday when he returned from lunch at the Pumpkin Club. I had been performing some gentle calisthenics recommended by the doctor to relieve stiffness in the healing muscle of my thigh, which had necessitated my lying upon the floor. I sat up and attempted to rise to help him out of his coat, but sank back with a wince. Rising quickly still caused me some pain.

“For heaven’s sake, Jeeves, you know you’re still on the sick list. Let me help you.” He gave me his hand and brought me to my feet, assisting me to the sofa, and saw me seated comfortably before taking off his coat and hanging it up in the most self-sufficient manner. I hoped he would not make a habit of it; it made me feel distinctly surplus to requirements.

“Nearly had a bit of a contretemps at the Pumpkin today,” he remarked, puffing out his cheeks and exhaling in a somewhat equine manner.

“Oh?” I enquired.

“Yes - nearly forgot myself while I was chatting with Rocky. He’s in town for the rest of the week, seeing his editor and what not. I said in passing about something or other, ‘as I was saying to Jeeves in bed the other day,’ and only just managed to keep going when his eyebrows popped up. I thought it best to act as if I’d said nothing out of the o. ‘In bed?’ he said, and I laughed and said oh yes it did sound funny, of course I meant I’d been talking to you _from_ my bed, and that seemed to smooth it over.”

“Well smoothed, sir.” He wagged an admonitory finger at me, and I corrected myself with pleasure. “Bertie.”

“Of course, Rocky is Bohemian, but that only goes so far.” He hung up his jacket as well, then sat down beside me, in shirtsleeves as I was, and rested his head on my shoulder. I put my arm around him, and together we leant back against the sofa cushions in the greatest comfort. “There’s staying in your pyjamas all day, and then there’s staying in them with another chap.”

“Fortunately neither of us is ill enough to necessitate that.” I forebore from any further comment on Mr Todd’s sartorial habits, which I find disturbing merely to contemplate. It was vastly preferable to contemplate Bertie’s outstretched legs, clad in faultless blue serge and gracefully crossed at the ankles. 

“Well, I’ll just have to take care, and keep you under my hat. I’d forgotten how nice and cosy it is to share the bed - when my cousin Angela and I were kids, we’d often hop in her bed or mine together, and chatter and tell secrets until we fell asleep. Quite sad when Aunt Dahlia told us we were getting too big to sleep together. Though one takes her point now.”

“There was, of course, no impropriety.”

“Of course there was of course no impropriety.” He rubbed his cheek against my shoulder affectionately. “Goose. Angela is the dearest girl in the world, and jolly pretty, but I’ve never been smitten by her charms. Particularly not when we were small and she used to bounce her teddy off my head.” He rubbed once more, and continued, “When my parents died, it was Aunt Dahlia who came to fetch me from school. The old brick let me cry on her lap in the car, and told me it was terribly sad, but I mustn’t worry because she would take care of me. And that night, I blubbed again when I was in bed, and Angela heard me from her night-nursery. She came creeping in, and hopped into bed and hugged me round the neck, and said that she would share her mummy and daddy with me. Hence my favourite aunt and my favourite cousin.”

“And so you sought to comfort me in my distress as Miss Travers had comforted you?”

“It does seem to work,” he said, looking up at me with puppyish appeal. “And you’re another of my favourites.”

It would have been a perfect moment to kiss him, had we been on a kissing basis. His face was only inches from mine, upturned, with his lips slightly parted. I was tormented by the thought that he might be _hoping_ that I would respond. But had he implied that his affection for me was of the same nature as his love of his cousin?

And while I hovered in an agony of indecision, my darling kissed me.

It was a soft, light, brief kiss on my left cheek, just beside my mouth. I caught my breath, and he drew back. 

“Was that all right?” he asked. “I should have asked if I might.”

“It was perfectly all right,” I succeeded in saying. “You may do it again whenever you like.”

“And I won’t mention it to Rocky,” he said with a small smile. I could feel his smile when he kissed me again, still on the cheek, and again when I kissed him for the first time, on the lips. There was no resistance or reluctance. He met me gladly, and made a sweet little sound.

“Sir - Ber - ss - why did you -” I cleared my throat and asked, more intelligibly, “Why did you kiss me?”

“I hoped you would like it.” He smiled again, his eyes shining. “Did you?”

“Very much.”

“Jeeves, I have never in all the time I’ve been blessed enough to know you seen you look flurried. You look thoroughly flurried. And flustered. And flummoxed.”

“Indeed, I appear to be floundering.”

“Why’s that?”

I screwed my courage to the sticking place, as well as I was able. “I feel a slight uncertainty. Would I be right in thinking that you kissed me fondly, as - as you might kiss your cousin?”

I am grateful for Mr Wooster’s open and expressive countenance. His disappointment was plain to see. 

“Well, I, er, ah…”

“I am _so_ glad to be wrong.” I kissed him again, without restraint. We wound our arms about one another, his hands spreading and clutching at my shoulders. I learned the taste of his mouth, overlaid by the flavour of his post-prandial cigarette. 

“Oh, Jeeves,” he breathed. “I think I’ve always been a bit in love with you.”

“And I with you.”

“You’re joking.”

“Perhaps it took me a day or two, but it’s near enough to always.”

“Pish,” he said against my lips.

“I assure you, Bertie, that at the end of my first day with you, when I had seen you safely to bed, put all in order, and retired to my room, I fell asleep with the thought of how sweet you were.” 

“I bedded down with the thought of what a wonder you were. Your charms had smit me heavily.”

“My - my dearest Bertie, may I ask you for something?”

“Of course you may.”

“Will you address me as Reggie? Or Reg, if you prefer? Since you invited me to call you Bertie, I have wished for it, but I hardly dared ask.”

“I hardly dared de-Jeeves you.”

“Please do.”

“Reggie,” he said experimentally. “Rrrreggie. Reg? Reggie, Reg. May I use Reg for every day and Reggie for moments of tender pash?”

“An excellent scheme.”

“Reggie.” He kissed me once again. “It makes you sound - well, like one of my friends! How I’d love to introduce you that way. This is my friend Reggie. My _dear_ friend Reggie. My darling Reggie.” He followed this up with a deliciously protracted kiss. I was surprised and delighted to find him so adroit in this. “And dear old Reg… I shall just ask Reg what he thinks…” He placed one hand upon my knee and rubbed affectionately. “I must be toddling home, Reg will be wondering where I am.”

“I must admit that I have been accustomed to refer to you at the Ganymede as ‘my gentleman’ and ‘my Mr Wooster’.”

“Would you like to say ‘my Bertie’?”

“That might even be acceptable in relaxed circumstances. Some of my colleagues are known to refer to their gentlemen by little nicknames.”

“Oh, like Bertie?”

“Not always so affectionate.”

“Like what, like what?”

“There is a ‘Piggy’ and a ‘Himself’.”

“Ah, then ‘my Bertie’ might sound a bit too soppy.”

“Perhaps not. I am known to be fond of you. And - well - the name of the club _is_ the Junior Ganymede.”

“I don’t quite follow you, Reg.”

I briefly sketched the nature of the relationship between Jove and Ganymede. His jaw dropped. “I am _scandalised._ Do the members know?”

“The name is something of a signal to like-minded gentlemen.”

“I must say, I envy you that. I haven’t known anyone like-minded since I was at Oxford.”

“Oh yes?” I felt a prickle of retrospective jealousy, assuaged by the fact that he had slung one of his legs over mine and was rubbing his instep against my calf. 

“I had a very nice tutor who said that my essays were the most appalling muddles, but I was a most appealing muddle. We decided to give up the essays as a lost cause and concentrate on canoodling.”

I was appalled. What sort of tutor abandons a student’s education in favour of seduction? With perseverance and guidance, my muddle-headed Bertie might have learned to order his thoughts. I could not delude myself that he might have been among the brightest, but he might at least have earned a respectable Third. 

“And of course back at school,” he went on, “I shared a study with a boy called Featherstonehaugh, and I suppose that was when I started to understand, you know, that I did like girls as well, but sometimes I got jolly excited about boys too. We both sort of skipped around each other like spring lambs until Fanny very casually suggested that we could practise for kissing girls by kissing each other, and that broke the ice nicely.”

That, at least, was better. “I had a very similar experience with a fellow footman in my second situation. We shared a small attic bedroom, and enjoyed our privacy.”

“I didn’t know how to find anyone else like that after I’d left Oxford and come up to London. To tell you the truth, I was nervous about trying, because the last I heard of my tutor was that he’d got pinched for doing something indiscreet in a shrub on Hampstead Heath. I wrote and said I’d help him if I could, but he wrote back that I shouldn’t be involved and he wished me well. Which was very square of him.”

“Did you love him?” I asked.

“I was very fond of him,” Bertie said thoughtfully, “but I don’t think so. It was more of a crush. At first I thought you were another crush. Rocky was, when I met him. I still have a little bit of a crush on Ginger Winship. Perhaps just a squash. I decided I could bear with a few crushes, and concentrate on the fair sex, and keep out of trouble. Don’t laugh! _And_ I decided I could bear with loving you, and not saying anything about it, as long as you’d stay. But just lately that hasn’t been enough for me, and I suppose not for you either.”

“This is enough,” I said, and drew him close, and kissed him again, marvelling at how easily I could make myself so happy. I wrapped my arms more snugly around his slim waist, and his lips parted for me. Even if I deplored that tutor’s ethics, I entirely understood his desire. Bertie had the most wonderfully inviting way of sighing between kisses, while rather boldly easing me onto my back. If he could be bold, so could I, and I seized the opportunity to stroke his bottom, which he wriggled appreciatively. At this juncture, I remembered something.

“There was a telephone message I meant to give you.”

“I give you leave to stop smooching me just long enough to do so.”

“The superintendent of the Stuyvesant Towers reports that the repairs and redecoration are almost complete. He anticipates that you may be able to return home before the week-end.”

_“We_ may, Reggie, we may. My home is yours. My bed is yours. My _new_ bed, since the old one got a bit ruined by the blast. I chose a cracker, the headboard is shaped like a fan done in lovely browny-goldy woods.” He dropped his head to whisper by my ear, “We can make it bump against the wall if you like.”

“Bump?”

“Bump.” He pushed his hips against mine, innocently guileless and passionate together. “If you would like to?”

“I fear my leg is not yet equal to any vigorous exertions.”

“That’s all right. We can start with gentle tapping.” 


End file.
